


a very fine house

by appleeater



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic, Fluff, M/M, for a given value of domestic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 00:13:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11817156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appleeater/pseuds/appleeater
Summary: Feuilly thinks Bahorel is an asshole. He is, but a different kind of asshole than Feuilly thinks. Bahorel thinks Feuilly is perfect.In which Feuilly needs a place to stay and Bahorel needs to be more creative with his nicknames.





	a very fine house

“Feuilly needs a place to stay.”

“Why are you telling me? It’s not like we’re friends.”

“You have the space.”

“So? Don’t you and Enj have that extra room?”

“Courfeyrac’s living there now, remember?”

“Shit. Joly and Bousett?”

“Are crowded enough with Musichetta coming over all the time and she’s planning to move in once her lease is up.” 

“There’s always R.” 

Combeferre gives him a speaking look. Bahorel runs his hands through his hair. Yeah, okay, Grantaire lives in the world’s shittiest studio apartment and wallows in filth like it’s his job. 

“But he doesn’t like me.” 

Bahorel is aware that he sounds like a petulant brat but it’s true. Feuilly doesn’t like him. Never has, either.

Combeferre regards him steadily. Bahorel contemplates throwing something but he knows, from experience, that it won’t shake Combeferre’s calm. At best, it will earn him an eye roll. He should know better by now than to accept invitations to grab a drink from Combeferre. They are never just bros hanging out over a beer. Hell, Combeferre had ordered a soda. Bahorel should have ditched then and there. 

“Listen, if he needs a place to stay so bad, why doesn’t he just ask?”

“He’s living in his car,” Combeferre says, as though they are discussing the weather. “Joly saw him.” 

Joly might be the worst person to catch someone squatting. He’d probably fussed Feuilly half to death. 

“You’re the only one with room,” Combeferre says, gently. “It would only be temporary.” 

“I regret telling you bastards where I live,” Bahorel complains, standing up. He drains what remains of his pint. “I’ll ask. If he’s pissed off, that’s on you.”

 

 

\--

 

He has a moment of doubt but he does have Feuilly’s number saved in his phone. It must have gotten added before one of the rallies or something. He’s certainly never used it.

He thinks a moment before typing: _yo, it seems I’ve got a spare room and you have a homelessness problem. what a coincidence_

Feuilly is deeply passionate about the homeless, probably. He rivals Enjolras for his ability to get fired up over nearly everything. It’s probably a dick move to make his offer in terms that Feuilly is sure to find offensive but if he’s going to live with Bahorel, he’d better get used to being offended. Also, imagining his face going all red is pretty enjoyable. 

His phone buzzes an incoming call. Bahorel gives himself a second to cuss at it, earning him a nasty look from a passing woman. He would flip her off but he’s too busy trying to steady his hands before answering the phone. 

“Hey,” he says, as coolly as he can.

“Fuck you.”

“Nice one, carrot top,” Bahorel says, smiling in spite of himself. “Real polite.” 

“I don’t need your pity housing.” 

“It isn’t pity housing.” It’s true. He can’t imagine pitying Feuilly.

“Oh, so you’re telling me that Joly didn’t sit you down and earnestly beg you to give me a home?” 

“It was Combeferre, actually,” Bahorel says, kicking a rock on the sidewalk. “And that means that it wouldn’t be pity housing. It’d be logical and shit.” 

Feuilly is surprised into silence, for the moment. Bahorel seizes the opportunity and jumps in.

“Listen man, I have the space. It’s not a fucking palace or anything but it’s got to be better for your back than the seat of your car. I’m hardly there,“ – he certainly won’t be if Feuilly moves in-“so it’d be an upgrade for sure.” 

“Hm,” Feuilly says, “I’m just in-between places right now, okay, it would be temporary.” 

“I wouldn’t offer otherwise,” Bahorel says, reasonably. 

“Ha,” Feuilly barks. 

There’s a long pause. 

“Fine.”

“Cool,” Bahorel says, feeling his heart pound in the same way that it does when he’s about to start a fight, only it’s terrible instead of exciting. “You can move in whenever. Just give me a heads up.” 

“I’ll pay whatever half the rent is.” 

“Fuck that noise. I don’t need your money.”

“I’m serious.” 

“So am I. If you must pay me back-“ – Bahorel is prompted by an evil inner voice-“you can do my laundry and shit. Maybe cook me dinner.” 

He expects Feuilly to sputter or something but instead he says, coldly, “We’ll see,” and hangs up.

 

\--

 

Feuilly moves in the next day, a text heralding his arrival, a simple _eta 30 minutes._ It’s the first text that Bahorel has ever gotten from him.

Enjolras comes to help Feuilly move in. This seems unnecessary since Feuilly had been able to fit his worldly belongs into a single shitty station wagon but Bahorel quickly realizes that Enjolras hasn’t come to do the heavy lifting but to inspect the premises. He brings a single box up the stairs and then proceeds to shamelessly poke around Bahorel’s apartment. 

Bahorel goes to help Feuilly with the unloading. 

“Let me,” he says, taking a box of books from Feuilly. “Your twig arms wouldn’t last a minute.”

Feuilly scowls at him. He looks tired, under the irritation, and Bahorel is glad for the first time that he invited Feuilly to move in. 

“You’re an idiot for letting Enjolras alone in your apartment.” 

“I’ve got nothing to hide,” Bahorel boasts. It’s mostly true, even. He certainly doesn’t have any skeletons in his closet or hardcore drugs in his bathroom. He isn’t sure what Enj is looking for, exactly. 

“You have a nice place,” is Enjolras’ final verdict, a note of suspicion in his voice.

“You’ve been here before, Enj,” Bahorel reminds him.

“I was a bit distracted by the blood,” Enjolras says, lips pursed.

Feuilly looks mildly alarmed.

“There was a riot,” Bahorel assures him, smirking. “A bit of blood’s to be expected.”

Feuilly rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Where can I put my clothes?” 

Bahorel tilts his head towards the spare bedroom. After a moment, Feuilly huffs and goes to inspect it. Bahorel doesn’t know what Feuilly is expecting but he hopes that it isn’t much. The room had been Bahorel’s parent’s room but they hadn’t been the type of people to hold on to stuff and neither was Bahorel. It still has a bed, though, so Feuilly won’t have any grounds to complain. 

Enjolras’ disapproving expression remains fixed on Bahorel as Feuilly walks away. 

Bahorel holds up his hands in the universal I’ve-done-nothing-wrong gesture. “What?”

“Try to get along, would you?”

“Yes, mother,” Bahorel says, before shouting out, “Yo, freckle face. I’m going to get another load from your car.” 

“Help your fucking self,” Feuilly shouts back. 

Bahorel grins at Enjolras, all teeth. “See? We’re a regular sitcom duo already. Can’t you just feel the charming dynamic?”

Enjolras does not smile back. “Just try not to kill each other.”

“That,” Bahorel says, on his way out the door, “we might be able to manage.”

 

\--

 

Feuilly had resisted the urge to throw Bahorel’s offer in his teeth only because Joly was worried. Joly is always worried, of course, but usually about catching a cold or what to buy people for their birthdays. It isn’t nice to see him genuinely distressed. 

Feuilly had already done the math. He had known that none of the Amis had the space for him. He isn’t so proud that he wouldn’t have asked. 

He had forgotten about Bahorel. 

He’s never understood how Bahorel came to be a part of the Amis. He rarely speaks up at meetings unless it’s to crack a joke or suggest assassinating a politician. He clearly comes from money. He fights people for _fun_.

Worse than that, though, it always seems like he’s laughing at Feuilly. It isn’t just the stupid nicknames- Feuilly has certainly heard worse – it’s the way that Bahorel looks at him, mockery in every line of his face.

“Fucker,” Feuilly says, punching his pillow.

Actually, for a fucker, Bahorel is an excellent roommate. True to his word, he’s hardly home. None of the Amis seem to be clear on what Bahorel does with his time, exactly, but whatever it is, it keeps him busy. Between Bahorel’s mysterious disappearances and Feuilly’s work schedule, they’ve only run into each other a couple of times the entire week Feuilly’s been living there.

Feuilly punches his pillow again, willing himself to sleep. He’s mistimed the caffeine again, leaving himself wide-awake just when he needs to be sleeping. He has classes in the morning and another shift at the coffee shop in the evening. He’d promised Enjolras some research, too. 

He rolls over to look at the ceiling and is contemplating getting up to do some push-ups or something when he hears the key turn in the lock. Bahorel lets himself in at-Feuilly consults the clock- 11 at night. He hears the fridge opening and then the very clear sound of Bahorel cursing. 

Feuilly thinks about ignoring it but the ceiling isn’t that interesting. 

Bahorel is in the kitchen, clutching a bag of frozen vegetables to his face, texting slowly with his free hand. 

Feuilly arches an eyebrow at him. “That’s a look.” 

Bahorel curses again, jerking around to look at Feuilly. “Shit. I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says. 

“You didn’t. What are you hiding underneath there?”

“Nothing,” Bahorel says. “I’ve decided that this might make just the fashion statement I was looking for.” 

Feuilly rolls his eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to put raw steak on a black eye?” 

“That’d be a waste of steak.” 

“I suppose you’ve been out brawling or something?”

“On this, the day of our lord?” Bahorel clutches his hands to his chest in mock horror. The action reveals what is shaping up to be a nasty black eye and a cut eyebrow.

“That’ll need stitches.” 

“Nah,” Bahorel says, ducking his head in what looks absurdly like shyness. “Cosette gave me the clear.” 

“Cosette?” 

“Yeah, she gave me the shiner,” Bahorel says. “She’s also a paramedic, which comes in handy when she beats the shit out of me.” 

Feuilly notes with surprise that Bahorel sounds proud. He wouldn’t have thought that Bahorel’s ego would stand him being beaten in a fight, let alone to a woman. 

In a moment of charity, Feuilly asks, “Since I’m up, do you want me to make some tea or something?”

Bahorel looks surprised and then grins so wide that it has to be painful, given the state that his face is in.

“Going to be a proper little housewife then?” Bahorel laughs. “Giving me tea and tending to my wounds?”

“Fuck off,” Feuilly says, annoyed at himself for letting his guard down.

“Nah, seriously.” Bahorel turns and starts rifling through the cupboards, leaving his phone and the slowly melting bag of vegetables on the counter. “Give me a second and I’ll brew some up. I think I’ve got some teacups and shit from Jehan, too.” 

If Feuilly hadn’t seen the china himself, he would have thought Bahorel was still fucking with him. But no, he pulls out two dainty teacups and their accompanying saucers.

“Nothing with caffeine,” Feuilly says warily. 

“Sleepytime tea, it is.” Bahorel tosses an errant grin over his shoulder.

“Hmm,” Feuilly says.

 

\--

 

Things are a bit less tense after the night that Feuilly had caught Bahorel nursing the black eye and they had drunk chamomile tea out of the teacups that Bahorel will deny having outright stolen from Jehan years ago. They had talked a little about Bahorel’s boxing and Feuilly’s job. It hadn’t been a disaster.

For the next few days, Bahorel tests the waters by hanging around the apartment a bit more and Feuilly doesn’t seem all that disappointed to see him 

He doesn’t stay around Feuilly for long. If they manage ten minutes of civil conversation, Bahorel preserves the victory by leaving. Feuilly seems kind of bemused by this behavior but that’s better than his usual sharp annoyance. 

This strategy works up until one night when the weather’s crap and Bahorel has no work, Feuilly doesn’t either, and they end up in the kitchen around dinnertime.

Feuilly takes one look at Bahorel and takes an extra few potatoes out of the cupboard. 

“I’ll cook,” he tells Bahorel, “if you’ll do the dishes.” 

Feuilly hilariously hates doing the dishes. He’s not crazy about doing any kind of cleaning but he’ll go to pretty stupid lengths to avoid the dishes. (“I just don’t like touching wet food. Sue me.”) A few days before, when he had been tired enough to be slightly delirious, he had jokingly offered Bahorel a blowjob in exchange for him washing his oatmeal bowl. Bahorel had really pointedly left the dishes undone and gone to have a minor heart attack in his room. Bahorel has no idea if Feuilly had even been awake enough to remember that particular interaction. 

“It was a joke, you know,” Bahorel says, watching Feuilly crack some eggs, “about the laundry and dinner. You don’t actually owe me anything for staying here. Besides, you mix your darks and your lights like some kind of heathen. I’m not letting you near my clothes.” 

Feuilly gives him one of those clear-eyed looks that simultaneously alarm and thrill Bahorel. When Feuilly looks at him like that, he’s _really_ looking. 

“I’m still planning to pay rent.” 

“You can try,” Bahorel says. He isn’t going to accept a penny of Feuilly’s money.

“What are you making, anyways?” 

“Tortilla,” Feuilly says. “One of my foster moms used to live in Spain and she taught me how to make it.” 

Bahorel hoards away this information. Feuilly rarely talks about himself. He has to take what he can get. 

“Well, if it’s got eggs and potatoes in it, I’m down.” 

Feuilly smiles, just a quirk of his mouth. “Are you going to the meeting tomorrow?” 

“That’s tomorrow?” Bahorel does a quick review of his schedule. “Yeah, I guess. I don’t have anything better to do and R and I talked about going out afterwards.” 

“I can give you a ride there,” Feuilly offers. His eyes are firmly fixed on the potatoes he’s chopping so it’s hard to know if he wants Bahorel to accept or not.

“Nah, thanks, though. I’ve got work right before so I’ll just walk.”

Feuilly shrugs as though he doesn’t care one way or the other. “Sure thing. Now tell me you have garlic.”

 

\--

 

These days, the Amis are well on their way to being a well-established organization. Bahorel has a terrifying suspicion that one day he is going to find himself involved with an honest-to-god political party. They have proper meetings in the office (god help them all) that they rent out for those who’ve made the organization their primary job but they also have casual meetings at the Musain. Bahorel is far more likely to be found at one of those. 

He rolls into the meeting, ten minutes early by accident rather than design. Feuilly is already there, speaking with Enjolras. Bahorel nods at him and looks away before he can see if Feuilly will nod back. 

He wanders over to where Grantaire has ensconced himself, the darkest corner of the café. 

“Hey man,” he says, putting his feet up on the table. 

Grantaire looks up from his phone, bleary eyed. “Nice eye.”

“Cosette.” 

“Ah.” Grantaire has been on the receiving end of Cosette’s right hook once or twice. He hasn’t come to the boxing gym in a while. Bahorel knows better than to ask. Grantaire floats in and out of most things in life. He may very well still show up one day like he never left. 

“It matches your shirt,” Grantaire comments, giving the bruise his critical attention. 

“Thank you,” Bahorel says, because he’d made an effort. It was hard to match that particular shade of yellow-green but he’d done his best. “We still on for tonight?” 

Grantaire shrugs. “I’m in. Are you bringing Feuilly?” 

“Why would I bring Feuilly?” 

“Why would he bring Feuilly, where?” 

Joly appears and plants himself firmly on Grantaire’s lap.

“The Corinthe, tonight,” Grantaire says, adjusting to make room. “Are you and Bossuet coming?” 

“We have no plans,” Joly says cheerfully. “Not tonight anyways. We _do_ have plans for taking over the world but that’ll have to wait until Bossuet’s term is over anyways because we have to move to Argentina.” 

“Best leave the world domination to Enjolras,” Grantaire suggests. “But why Argentina?”

Joly expands upon the theme. Bahorel, who has heard the plan before, leans back in his chair and allows his gaze to roam the room until it alights on Feuilly. Feuilly never looks so interested or so relaxed when talking to Bahorel. Figures. Bahorel isn’t an idiot but he isn’t the magnetic speaker that Enjolras is. When it comes down to it, he isn’t half the man Enjolras is. Few people are, of course. Bahorel doesn’t usually worry about it. Isn’t sure why he’s worrying about it now. 

Fuck. 

Feuilly has caught him looking. He looks back, gaze steady and inquisitive. 

Bahorel tosses off a little salute, two fingers from the temple. Feuilly rolls his eyes but he also smiles a little like he finds Bahorel’s jackassery amusing. 

He turns back to Enjolras and Bahorel tells his heart to calm the fuck down already. 

Bahorel turns to Grantaire, who is watching him with eyes that are red-rimmed but still sharper than Bahorel is comfortable with. Joly’s eyes are confused but gentle. 

“I heard you were living together now,” Grantaire says. “That’s why I asked if he was coming.” 

“It’s very nice of you to let him stay,” Joly says, beaming benevolently like a little cherub.

“It’s temporary,” Bahorel says. “We aren’t getting buddy-buddy or anything.” 

“Uh-huh,” Grantaire says, eyes flickering across Bahorel’s face. “Well, if you need to talk about it-“ 

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“But if you need to talk about that nothing-“ Grantaire pauses to take a sip of his beer, “-I volunteer Joly’s services. He’s much better at that kind of thing than I am.”

Bahorel lets out a crack of laughter. 

Joly is torn at being tickled by the compliment and assuring Grantaire that he is perfectly good at “this kind of thing” even though Joly isn’t sure what exactly they are talking about.

 

\--

 

Enjolras does a good job pretending to talk about other subjects for about fifteen minutes before he asks about Bahorel. The only reason it takes that long is because Feuilly manages to get him started on the way that queer children are marginalized in public schools, a surefire way to get Enjolras talking. 

“But we can save that for the meeting with the superintendent on Wednesday,” Enjolras says, a terrifying light in his eyes. Feuilly feels sorry for the superintendent.

Then he turns the gaze to Feuilly. “How is the apartment?” 

Now, Feuilly just feels sorry for himself. 

“It’s been fine,” Feuilly reassures Enjolras. 

To his surprise, he means it, too. It’s a little weird living in the guy’s house and seeing him so little but he still hasn’t woken Feuilly up or even disturbed his studying. 

“You’re not fighting?” 

Enjolras didn’t entirely approve of Combeferre’s plan for Feuilly to move in with Bahorel and had been all for letting Feuilly crash on their couch indefinitely. (Combeferre was deeply and hilariously indifferent to Enjolras’ disapproval). It isn’t that Enjolras doesn’t like Bahorel because, for reasons that Feuilly doesn’t entirely understand, Enjolras clearly does like him. Enjolras just doesn’t like the way that Bahorel and Feuilly can’t seem to be in a room together without snapping at one another. 

Or at least, Feuilly hadn’t thought they could be. 

“We’ve established some peace,” Feuilly says, looking over to Bahorel. 

Bahorel is looking back. 

The bruise on his face is faint but hideous. His hair is scraped into his usual douchey manbun and his jeans probably cost more than Feuilly’s textbooks for the semester. Feuilly waits for the slight surge of annoyance but Bahorel isn’t sneering or grinning or making any of the elastic infuriating expressions that he wears so well. 

Bahorel has nice eyes when one of them isn’t swollen shut. 

After a second, Bahorel tosses him a jaunty salute. Feuilly rolls his eyes, half at Bahorel and half at himself. Nice eyes. Sure.

“You’re getting along, then?” 

Enjolras looks slightly disbelieving. 

“Something like that,” Feuilly says. And changes the subject.

 

\--

 

Going out with Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire always ends in drunkenness on a monumental scale and this time the situation is made worse by the fact that Eponine is bartending at the Corinthe. 

Bahorel loves Eponine and her sharp eyes and sharp tongue and the way that she always mixes her drinks strong enough to knock out a horse. 

“Marry me,” he tells her, clasping his hands to his chest. He would try and hold her hand but Eponine is like a cat. She will tolerate touch if, and when, she wants it. 

“You are rich,” she says, thoughtfully. 

“Within reason.” Bahorel has enough money to be comfortable. It’s his parents’ legacy to him, along with his singing voice, his general belief that disaster is something to be enjoyed as much as good fortune, and his impeccable taste in clothing. 

“Hm,” Eponine says, sliding a glass of water to Grantaire. Judging by his enthusiasm, he thinks it’s vodka, at least until he takes a healthy sip. “I think I’ll hold out for a millionaire.” 

“Your loss,” Bahorel says, shrugging. “Grantaire will marry me and his drinks are almost as good as yours.” 

“But at once, my friend, if you would have me,” Grantaire says, in that grand way of talking that he adopts when drunk. “But I would hate to cut the good Feuilly out.” 

Joly makes a horrified noise and Bossuet pokes Grantaire in the arm, but it is too late. 

“And what the fuck do you mean by that?” Bahorel puts his beer down. 

“You can’t fight R in here,” Eponine says, her hand gripping Bahorel’s shoulder with an impressive firmness. The grip makes it through the fog of alcohol and Bahorel relents. 

“I won’t fight R, anywhere,” Bahorel says. “At least I won’t if he shuts up about things he doesn’t know a damn thing about.” 

“An impossibility, I’m afraid,” Grantaire says with a smile, but his eyes are sorry. “But I will no longer touch on such tricky subjects. Instead, we will dance.” 

“Oh no,” Bossuet says, looking eager but also dismayed. He has a tendency to cause havoc on the dance floor.

“You could just sit it out,” Joly suggests.

“No,” Bossuet says, glumly, “I can’t. Not if the music is any good.” 

“We’ll go somewhere with the best music,” Bahorel promises him. 

“Try not to die,” Eponine tells them and lets them go.

 

\--

 

Feuilly has just gotten up for work when Bahorel and Grantaire stumble through the front door. 

“Good morning,” he tells them, with irony.

Grantaire moans, slightly. “Nothing good about it, my friend.” 

“He’s moved onto the melancholy part of the evening,” Bahorel says. “Which means that it’s time for big R’s to go right to sleep.” He is half-carrying Grantaire, who is at least a head shorter than him but no lightweight. 

“Sleep is the only mercy in this cruel world,” Grantaire says, slurred. 

With a snort, Bahorel deposits him on the couch. Grantaire immediately rolls so that his face is mushed into the crease of the couch, and, to Feuilly’s amazement, he begins to snore. Bahorel regards this with a look of satisfaction before draping their one extra blanket on top of him. He catches Feuilly looking and shrugs. 

“He’s like that. Always has been. Any chance we have some leftover tortilla? I could kill for that shit right now.” 

Feuilly follows him into the kitchen.

“Have a good night?” he asks. 

Bahorel has clearly just been smoking. The smell clings to his jacket, fresh. Feuilly’s hands itch for a cigarette. He only quit a few months ago. 

“It was a good time,” Bahorel says. He pulls the tortilla out of the fridge with a fist pump. “You should’ve come.”

Feuilly raises an eyebrow. “You should’ve invited me.”

Bahorel laughs and, although it might have been his imagination, Feuilly thinks it sounds a little rueful.

“Yeah, well, Grantaire suggested it but I knew you had work this morning.” Bahorel pulls out a fork and starts eating the tortilla, cold. 

Feuilly would have expressed disgust but he is distracted. “I don’t think I told you that.” 

“Got your schedule up in here,” Bahorel says, tapping his temple with the fork. 

Feuilly isn’t exactly sure what to make of that. “You have glitter in your hair.” 

Bahorel pulls out a strand of his hair and examines it. “Do I look pretty?” 

He flutters his eyelashes and in that moment, improbably, the 1.86m heavyweight, with his beard and shitkickers, does look pretty. 

“It’d take a lot more glitter to make you pretty,” Feuilly tells Bahorel. “A truck load.” 

Instead of looking offended, Bahorel laughs, acknowledging the insult with a nod, and shoves the rest of the tortilla in his mouth. 

“Where’d you get glittered up, anyways?” 

Bahorel snorts. “That gay club that Courf was raving about. We should have known better. The drinks were shit and the music was all teeny-bopper American crap.” 

“Oh?” Feuilly tries not to let his surprise show.

“Yeah, we’re trying to get R to embrace the side of his bisexuality that doesn’t include pining after E.” 

Feuilly checks over his shoulder to see that Grantaire is still snoring away on the couch. He is. 

“How’d that go?” 

Feuilly likes to think that if Enjolras knew about Grantaire, he would be nicer to him. There are no guarantees of that. Enjolras is passionate, loving, and intelligent. He is not nice. Besides, if one’s being honest, Grantaire would try the patience of a saint. 

“It went about as well as you’d expect,” Bahorel says, shrugging his massive shoulders. 

“Hm,” Feuilly says, forcing his eyes away from the muscle on view. Bahorel is only wearing a tank top. God knows what happened to the shirt he had been wearing at the meeting. “Well, I have to get ready for work. You mind if I take the shower?” 

“Sure thing,” Bahorel says, putting the Tupperware in the sink. He’ll wash it first thing when he wakes up, Feuilly guesses. He is surprisingly finicky about the dishes. “I’m probably just gonna pass the fuck out. See you sometime tomorrow, maybe.” 

“Yeah,” Feuilly says. “Night.”

 

\--

 

Bahorel spends the next few days avoiding the apartment. He, contrary to popular belief, does have a job, working for a pro bono law group. The pay is shit but he doesn’t need the money, anyways. He spends a little too much time at the gym and ends up signing up to teach a self-defense class with Cosette. 

(“I’ll throw you,” she says cheerfully. “It’ll show them that the techniques work even on giants.” 

“I only look like a giant to you because you’re a pipsqueak,” Bahorel points out. He has to work hard to dodge the retaliation for that remark. ) 

He hovers around Jehan’s place, which Jehan only seems to notice in the vaguest sense, occasionally placing cups of tea in front of Bahorel. They are working on an epic poem. Sometimes they read bits of it out loud and it’s the only sound in the quiet apartment. It’s soothing, sort of, although the poem is clearly about something pretty fucking dark. Bahorel goes to see two movies, neither of them any good, and reads in the park for the first time in his life. 

It can’t last forever because he is an idiot who doesn’t think things through. He runs into Feuilly at the store near the apartment. 

Both he and Feuilly have milk in their baskets. 

“Long time no see,” Feuilly says. He lifts his eyebrows, looking disapproving. 

Bahorel shrugs. “I told you I wasn’t going to be around much.” 

“Jehan said you were at theirs.”

Bahorel goes to put the milk back. Jehan is a traitor. 

“Didn’t know that they noticed,” he says. “Do we need more butter?” 

“Yeah, we do,” Feuilly says. “Look, I didn’t mean to drive you out of your apartment.” 

“You didn’t,” Bahorel says, because it is imperative that Feuilly doesn’t feel guilty about it. It isn’t his fault that Bahorel can’t get his head straight.

“Bullshit. I can find somewhere else to crash if it’s such a problem.” 

“You don’t have anywhere else to crash,” Bahorel points out. 

“Oh, fuck you, man.” 

“It’s true. It’s not like you would’ve agreed to live with me otherwise.” 

Feuilly follows him to the produce section. “Get some apples.” 

“What type?” 

“Red delicious.” 

“You’re repulsive,” Bahorel says, throwing some in the basket anyways. He gets some granny smiths for himself because he is a man of taste. 

“If you’re doing this out of pity, I’d rather live in the car.” He sounds stupidly serious. 

“I don’t fucking pity you, you dramatic ass,” Bahorel says. “I just thought it would be easier if I were around less.” 

He chances a look at Feuilly and is caught by the expression that he’s wearing. He’s serious. Bahorel has never before had that particular look leveled at him. It is a little overwhelming. 

“We’ve been doing okay,” Feuilly says. The way he says it is unexpectedly soft. “Haven’t we?” 

“I guess we have,” Bahorel admits. 

“Hm. Get some chicken and I’ll make dinner.” 

So, Feuilly is going to expect him to be around more. Bahorel can do that without losing what is left of his mind. Probably.

 

\--

 

It wasn’t really a surprise that he’s interrupted at the Musain when he’s working on his computer. It is the go-to spot for most of the Amis, whether or not they have a meeting. 

“Feuilly!” 

Courfeyrac drapes himself over Feuilly’s chair, blatantly reading over his shoulder. Feuilly makes himself stay on the tab. It isn’t as though he has something to hide. 

“Ah, looking for a new place?” 

There is no judgment in Courfeyrac’s tone, not even speculation. Feuilly feels himself relax. 

“I’m not having much luck. A lot of these places want two months deposit. There’s more options on craigslist but I’m not really looking forward to living with a stranger.” 

“Bahorel beats out a random roommate, then?” 

Feuilly taps his fingers against the edge of his computer. Bahorel has started hanging around more. Feuilly would call him cautious but that’s not quite the word. He still swears, after all, still calls Feuilly names, and insults his fashion choices. It’s just that he also made fun of Feuilly’s taste in movies while they watched one together, continues to compliment Feuilly’s cooking with complete sincerity, and one morning, he made Feuilly a truly terrible triple espresso to “enable his shitty life choices.” 

“It’s fine,” Feuilly says, because he doesn’t really know what it is, anymore. 

“I’ve always suspected he leads a secret life,” Courfeyrac says, comfortably, sliding into the chair across from Feuilly. “Lots of beautiful lovers, perhaps a gang membership. Maybe he has a secret identity.” 

“No lovers,” Feuilly says, focusing hard on the listing in front of him. “Not that I’ve noticed, anyways. I can’t really speak to the rest of it. He’s not in most of the time.” 

“Still potential for a secret life, then,” Courfeyrac says, gleefully. “Have there been many mysterious comings and goings?” 

They are less mysterious, now. He is around more, since they had talked, but Bahorel seems to be genuinely a kind of busy guy. Still, after their tense grocery trip, Bahorel has started telling him where he is going and when. If Feuilly isn’t in, Bahorel leaves notes on the fridge, his handwriting a surprisingly lovely calligraphy. 

Feuilly shrugs. “The only time he’s ever spent the night away was when he was out all night clubbing with R and the boys.” 

Courfeyrac looks disappointed with that information but Feuilly has an inquiry of his own to pursue. 

“I was surprised that he went with them to a gay club.” 

“Bahorel?” Courfeyrac startles. “Why? He’s a founding member of the Amis after all.” 

“Yeah, but, isn’t he straight?”

Courfeyrac stares at him, blinks, and then bursts out laughing. 

“What? The organization welcomes allies. It was a reasonable assumption to make.” Feuilly felt his ears go red. 

“Why? Because he boxes? Because he’s a little too into football?” Courfeyrac says, whooping, holding on the table so that he wouldn’t fall straight out of his chair. 

Feuilly doesn’t want to say that’s the reason but he doesn’t want to tell Courfeyrac the actual reason either. 

The first time Feuilly had seen Bahorel, his heart had sunk. He was just the sort of asshole that had made life difficult for Feuilly in secondary school, making fun of his cheap clothes, calling him a faggot. Bahorel hasn’t ever sunk to that level, it’s true, but he certainly spends at least 50% of any conversation he has with Feuilly calling him names or mocking his beliefs. 

“Well, he’s not straight,” Courfeyrac says, wiping his eyes, either oblivious to Feuilly’s discomfort or politely ignoring it. “Really not straight. I think he’s got the pan flag tattooed on his ass. Well, that might have been a joke, now that I think about it.” 

“Ah,” Feuilly says, struck forcibly by that particular mental image. 

“Seriously,” Courfeyrac says, slapping the table. “I forgot you weren’t a part of the Amis when Bahorel first joined. You’ve got to get someone to show you pictures. I know Combeferre has some really incriminating ones. He had a pink mohawk and wore these dangly earrings. He also was like six inches shorter. Kinda twinky, really.”

“Ah,” Feuilly says, a little strangled. 

He continues to look for apartments but he finds it difficult to focus, even after Courfeyrac swans away. 

That night, Bahorel orders Chinese food and, as he had done the last couple of times, claims that he has over ordered by accident. (“Hey, you don’t happen to know some skinny little shit who will eat half of this for me?”) 

Feuilly called him out for it last time but Bahorel refused to admit that he had ordered the food for Feuilly. (“I’ll just throw it away if you don’t want it, man.” “Don’t you ever listen to Enjolras ranting about food waste?” “Not if I can help it”) 

It’s a pattern with him, Feuilly had come to notice. If you strip away the things that Bahorel says- well, it’s almost as though he’s a nice person. 

Bahorel doesn’t make an excuse that night, just shakes the bag at Feuilly. “You’ll eat half of this.” 

“Or what?” 

“Or I’ll pick what we’re watching.” 

Feuilly narrows his eyes. 

“Well, I hope you’re in the mood to watch the Bachelor, freckle face.” 

Feuilly isn’t sure if Bahorel is bluffing or not but he isn’t willing to chance it. Besides the food smells good and Feuilly doesn’t feel like cooking. 

They end up watching some home improvement show, which Bahorel claims to find boring. It doesn’t stop him from shouting out his opinions on the tiling that the contractors are choosing. 

Feuilly stabs him in the leg with a chopstick. “Stuff some rice in your face. I think the ceramic looks nice.” 

Bahorel raises his eyebrows at Feuilly and looks pointedly at the chopsticks as though to say, “You really think you can take me on?” 

“I’ll stab you again if you don’t keep quiet,” Feuilly says, not backing down an inch. 

“Yeah right,” Bahorel says, shaking his head in disbelief. His hair is down for once. It goes about halfway down his back. 

“I will. Just try me,” Feuilly says, reaching out to tug a lock of the hair, pulling a bit harder than he means to.

Bahorel clears his throat. “Fine,” he says.

He is suspiciously quiet for the next few minutes and it honestly freaks Feuilly out a little. Maybe that is why he blurts out without thinking:

“I heard from a little bird that you used to have an even stupider haircut.” 

Bahorel smiles and Feuilly feels a bit of triumph. Maybe he’s learning to speak in Bahorel’s language.   

“Yeah? I assume someone told you about the ‘hawk. Let me tell you, I rocked that shit, red, I really did.” 

“Red?” Feuilly says. “You’re slipping. And I refuse to believe that you looked like anything other than a gay rooster.”

“Look, because I’m a classy guy, I’m going to refrain from the obvious cock joke there.” Feuilly snorts. “And anyways, I was the sexiest gay rooster of them all,” Bahorel says, gesturing with his fork. 

“You really think that,” Feuilly marvels. “Jesus. I heard that you had a pair of earrings to go with it.”

Bahorel actually sighs a little. “Yeah. Had to get rid of those. They kept getting caught in shit and they’re no good in a fight. They were great, though.”

“You don’t have to fight all the damn time,” Feuilly says. Bahorel coming in with only the one black eye in over a month has to be some sort of a record. Ever since Feuilly has known him, he has shown up to places with all sorts of bizarre injuries.

(He thinks it might have been the first thing that Bahorel had ever said to him. “You should see the other guy.” This has been accompanied by a wink.)

“Some people deserve to have their head kicked in.”

And that is that. Feuilly lets him change the subject. He doesn’t let him change the channel.

 

\--

 

Bahorel has always liked Feuilly. And yeah, he has pretty much always _liked_ him, too. He still hadn’t realized how fucking _fun_ having Feuilly as a friend would be.

Feuilly, who is nice and polite to almost everyone else, can go toe-to-toe with Bahorel.

He had known that, of course, but it’s a totally different kind of experience to be fighting with him over what to get for take-out, the proper way to fold clothes, what movie to watch. They fight about what to do on a slow Saturday night and whether or not the latest Amis venture is too ambitious. They fight about Feuilly’s habit of leaving his ugly ass clothes on the bathroom floor and Bahorel’s hogging of the bathroom sink. When Feuilly catches him reading a copy of Wuthering Heights, it sparks a weeklong argument about literature.

It’s more fun than Bahorel can remember having in a long time. 

Bahorel will sometimes find himself humming a bit when he’s out in public. It’s fucking embarrassing, that shit.

The Amis have long since stopped cautiously asking if they’re fighting, which is probably a good thing. Bahorel would probably grin like a fucking loon if someone asked now. “We sure are.”

Feuilly is enjoying himself, too, is the thing. Before, his anger had been distant and disdainful but now he’ll punch Bahorel in the arm, laugh in the middle of a stupid fight, or pause a rant to take dinner out of the oven.

It is a 1000% better than the wary politeness that Bahorel had thought the best-case scenario.

“You are a disgusting creature and I regret ever meeting you,” Feuilly says, one afternoon, watching Bahorel assemble what the internet lovingly calls Legendary Frito Pie.

“Listen, carrot top,” Bahorel says, placing his hands on his hips, “just because all you eat is tofu and bunny food-“

“I ate a pack of oreos in front of you _yesterday_.”

“- doesn’t mean that the rest of us can survive on that shit. This is real men’s food. It says so on the blog I got the recipe from.” 

“This iteration of patriarchy is particularly disgusting,” Feuilly says, watching in horror as Bahorel ladles sour cream onto the pie.

“And here I was going to leave you some leftovers.”

“Bahorel, I say this as someone who has actually gone hungry, I would rather _starve._ ” 

Bahorel laughs. “Drama, such drama.”

He puts the pie in the oven, whistling a little. 

“Hey,” Feuilly says. “I owe you an apology.”

“If it’s about the fact that you are blatantly robbing me of my toothpaste because you’re too lazy to buy your own, I already know.” Bahorel inspects the oven settings, double-checking the timer.

“No. That’s not it. It’s – listen, I thought you were straight, you know,” Feuilly says. “When we first met.” 

Bahorel stands up straight so fast, he thinks he feels something in his spine crack. “You thought what?”

Feuilly is flushing. He does that a lot, when he’s angry or laughing. It’s the redhead in him. Bahorel is pretty sure that he’s just embarrassed, now. “Yeah. I guess I made some assumptions about you because of it. Like, I thought you were a bit of a misogynistic, homophobic asshole.” 

Bahorel feels his face contract and it must be a pretty horrible expression because Feuilly flinches, looking guilty.

“I was wrong. Obviously.” 

“Yeah,” Bahorel says, leaning on the counter. “Thanks for noticing, I guess? But why are you telling me this? Is this about the pie? Because, queer dudes also eat fritos, you weirdo.” 

“It’s not about the damn – look, I’m just saying that was stupid of me to think that of you in the first place. It’s not like you – just, I’m sorry for assuming you were a bigoted jackass.”

“Well, I _am_ a jackass, so you were only half wrong,“ Bahorel awkwardly rocks back and forth on his heels.

He hasn’t ever really thought about _why_ Feuilly hadn’t liked him. Bahorel rubs people the wrong way. He’s always just kind of figured that Feuilly was a little straightedge and didn’t like the constant swearing or Bahorel’s disregard for what constitutes proper behavior or his chronic inability to have a serious conversation. 

All this time he had thought Feuilly had just been getting used to him. It hadn’t occurred to him that Feuilly was getting to know him. 

“Are we cool?” Feuilly asks. 

Bahorel pastes a grin on his face. “Well, assface, you assumed I’m straight, which is a just a little, hm, gender normative of you. There’s going to be a price on my forgiveness.”

Feuilly’s eyes are already crinkling just a little in anticipation of the punch line. Bahorel would go to war for him and the idiot doesn’t even know it. 

“So man, we’re good. But only so long as you try some of my frito pie.”

Feuilly rolls his eyes but he can’t hide his smile. He eats two slices of the pie.

And if they are both a little cautious over dinner, their insults a little forced, neither of them mentions it.

 

\--

 

They recover from the awkwardness of a personal conversation that isn’t couched in insults and Bahorel settles back into the routine of arguing, cooking, and shared laundry. Feuilly has started coming to Bahorel’s self-defense classes (“It’s fun to watch Cosette beat the shit out of you”) and Bahorel helps Feuilly study for finals, rewarding his unsurprisingly amazing grades with a cake that he makes Joly help him with. Bahorel cuts back on smoking so that Feuilly stops visibly twitching every time he catches the scent of a cigarette.

Time passes quickly and then one night Feuilly knocks on his door even though it’s half open.

“Step into my humble abode,” Bahorel calls out, looking up from his book.

It’s a good book but Feuilly is worth looking at. He’s wearing Bahorel’s favorite of his jeans and a t-shirt that’s a little more fitted than he usually wears. 

Feuilly looks a little off and Bahorel thinks through the things that could have pissed Feuilly off. He comes up blank.

“What’s up, carrot top?” 

“I found a place.” 

It takes Bahorel a moment to realize what that means. Feuilly’s been living there for three months and Bahorel has unconsciously been hoping that he won’t move out. Of course he was always going to move out. It’s been temporary and just because they’re getting along doesn’t mean that Feuilly _wants_ live with him. 

“They’re letting me move in next week,” Feuilly continues, his eyes strangely intent on Bahorel’s face. 

“That’s great, man” Bahorel says, knowing he sounds overly hearty but not really being able to stop it. “You sure they’re not screwing you on the rent or anything?”

“Nah,” Feuilly says, leaning against the doorframe. He looks long and lean, like that, like something in a classical painting. “They’re some friends of R’s actually.”

“Cleaner than him, I hope.”

Feuilly smiles. “Yeah. I visited yesterday and it’s completely habitable.”

“Well, I’ll help you move in. You’ll need someone to do the heavy lifting,” Bahorel says, not really sure what else to say. “You know, asshole, I think I’ll actually miss having you around.”

God, he hopes that they’ll be able to be friends when they aren’t living together. 

Feuilly bites his lip. “About that,” he says, and then stops.

Bahorel puts his book to the side. “What?” 

Feuilly exhales. “How would you feel about having dinner with me?”

For a second Bahorel thinks that Feuilly is just changing the subject. He’s about to rag him on it but then he notices the intensity of Feuilly’s stare, the tension where his hand is holding the doorframe. Bahorel doesn’t want to make assumptions but it kind of seems like - 

“You asking me out?” Bahorel asks in disbelief.

Feuilly smiles, ducks his head. “Yeah. I guess I am, asshole.”

“Christ,” Bahorel says. “Seriously?”

Feuilly shrugs. He’s bright red.

“Okay,” Bahorel says. His heart is beating harder than if he had just run a mile.

“Really?”

“Fuck yeah,” Bahorel says, meaning it a little too much.

Feuilly’s answering smile is wide and a little stupid. Bahorel doesn’t say anything because he’s pretty sure his is even stupider. 

“Great, that’s great,” Feuilly says, rapping his knuckles against the doorframe. “Be ready to go at six.”

 

\--

 

Feuilly isn’t sure what he'd expected but Bahorel in a soft-looking grey button-down and his better leather jacket wasn’t it. His hair is up in some sort of complicated braided bun. 

“Did you paint your nails?” Feuilly asks, realizing he sounds stupidly charmed but unable to help it. 

Bahorel fans his hands out, showing off the sparkly blue varnish. “I had some time to kill before six.”

Feuilly takes him to an Italian place because he knows that the cliché will make Bahorel laugh. He does, while ordering a plate of spaghetti and meatballs and waggling his eyebrows like an idiot. 

They argue, because it’s what they do, and it’s almost like any other time that they’ve eaten together over the last couple of months, only sometimes Feuilly will catch Bahorel looking at him with this – well, the best way that Feuilly might describe it would be soft astonishment.

Bahorel waits until they order desert to ask. (“We’ll split a tiramisu?” “Split?” “Yeah, it’ll make up for you refusing to share a spaghetti kiss with me.” “Our first kiss isn’t going to involve pasta, Bahorel.”) 

“Not that I’m complaining but what brought this on? Did my shirtlessness finally seduce you?" 

Feuilly laughs because the way that Bahorel has taken to wandering around the apartment shirtless hasn’t exactly been subtle. It has been appreciated, though. 

“Yep, I just want you for your body,” Feuilly says.

“Fuck you. My personality is sparkling.”

“It’s something, alright,” Feuilly says, kicking Bahorel’s shin lightly.

Bahorel catches his foot between his calves.

“Seriously, though, man. Did someone snitch?”

“Snitch?” Feuilly decides not to try and pull his foot away. It’s not like it would be anything other than a losing battle. Bahorel has pretty muscular calves.

“I may have once or twice told someone that I thought you were pretty hot,” Bahorel says, looking at the ceiling.

“Oh?” Feuilly smiles at the way Bahorel’s ears are just a little red.

“Yeah, you know, for a skinny ginger and all.”

“Well, you’re pretty hot for a giant asshole, I guess.”

Bahorel’s eyes lower until they meet Feuilly’s. He really does have nice eyes.

“No one told me,” Feuilly admits. “It was pretty obvious once I figured out-“

“That I like dick?”

“-that you weren’t the kind of asshole who picks on queer skinny kids. Not unless you have a giant embarrassing _crush_ on them.”

Bahorel drops Feuilly’s foot. His gob smacked expression is deeply satisfying to Feuilly. He thinks about snapping a photo but Bahorel recovers too quickly for him to seize the opportunity.

“I don’t- giant crush, my ass.”

“A really embarrassing one,” Feuilly reminds him.

“You fucker,” says Bahorel, looking kind of awed.

Feuilly smiles.

Bahorel’s eyes narrow.

“I’d better be getting a hell of a goodnight kiss out of this.”

Feuilly picks up his fork. “Just the one? And here I was, prepared to put out.”

While Bahorel’s brain is rebooting, Feuilly steals the last bite of tiramisu.

 

\--

 

For all that Bahorel makes fun of him for being skinny, Feuilly isn’t. He is lean and has all sorts of muscle hidden under the ugly plaid shirts that he favors. 

“I’m burning all your shirts,” he tells Feuilly, as he tosses the one Feuilly was wearing aside. 

Feuilly doesn’t put up much of argument but that’s because his mouth is occupied with Bahorel’s pulse. He bites down. If it’s meant to be a punishment, he gravely misjudged.

“Your mouth,” Bahorel gasps out. He feels Feuilly’s smile, smooth against his neck and has to haul him up for a kiss.

It goes softer than Bahorel had intended, more tongue than teeth, his hands cradling Feuilly’s face, one of Feuilly’s hands gentle on his neck, the other drawing a slow but firm line down his spine.

Bahorel pulls back for a breath and gets caught in the way Feuilly looks, flushed and eyes bright.

“I really fucking like you,” Bahorel says.

Feuilly smiles, bright and happy. “I really fucking like you, too,” he says.

“Bed?”

“Yeah.”

Bahorel had indulged in a jerk-off fantasy or two about Feuilly but he had always dreamed of them hatefucking in some bathroom or in the backroom of the Musain. He had never thought about Feuilly stretched out on his bed, laughing his ass off at Bahorel’s attempts to smoothly take off his jeans. It seems like a failure of imagination on his part. 

“Hey,” Bahorel protests, trying not to smile. “If you want to get your dick sucked sometime this year, I would suggest you stop laughing at the guy willing to give you head.” 

“Ha! It’s not my fault that you wore the world’s tightest pants, you vain moron.”

“I didn’t know the date would go so well,” Bahorel complained. “I chose these jeans because they make my ass look fantastic not because they’re easy on, easy off.”

“Well, your ass does look fantastic,” Feuilly conceded. His eyes are impossibly warm.

Bahorel takes more than a few seconds to look away from Feuilly but then he goes back to the task of stripping off his pants.

Feuilly’s down to just his boxers and a pair of socks by the time Bahorel manages it.

Feuilly catches him looking and shrugs. “I have shitty circulation.”

“The romance is dead,” Bahorel laments and leans down to kiss Feuilly like he has wanted to kiss Feuilly for what has felt like his whole life.

Fascinating new information about Feuilly: the blush does go all the way down, he makes this hoarse little moan when Bahorel bites on his left nipple, and he has the world’s prettiest dick.

“Look,” Bahorel says, “jokes aside-”

“God,” Feuilly says, eyes widening in mock horror, “it must be serious, then.”

“I want you to fuck me,” Bahorel says, not even looking away from Feuilly’s dick. So sue him. He may like Feuilly but he gets to look at his face pretty much all the time. He and Feuilly’s dick are just getting acquainted. “Scratch that, I need you to fuck me.”

He fully expects to find Feuilly laughing at him but when he looks up Feuilly isn’t laughing. It’s like his usual soul-searching stare but now it’s _on fire_.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Jesus.” Bahorel thinks he might actually combust before Feuilly manages to get a condom and lube from Bahorel’s nightstand.

“Toss me the lube,” he says.

“I want to do it,” Feuilly says, already squeezing some out onto his fingers. 

And Bahorel really loves arguing with Feuilly, he does, but he can’t bring himself to manage even a token protest. How had he never noticed how fucking gorgeous Feuilly’s hands are?

His fingers feel even more gorgeous than they look. It’s been a while since Bahorel’s had sex, even longer since he’s let someone finger him. He forgot how much he could love it.

“Come on, man,” he tells Feuilly. “You can fuck me now.

“I don’t know,” Feuilly says, with a torturously slow thrust of his fingers timed with his free hand tugging Bahorel’s hair, just this side of painful. “I’m enjoying myself. Aren’t you?”

Bahorel would tell Feuilly to go fuck himself but he’s a bit busy having his mind blown.

“Christ,” Feuilly says. “Okay. Okay. I’ve got you. Jesus, Rel. Just let me –”

It’s maybe one of the best fucks of Bahorel’s life and how is that fair? Not only is Feuilly compassionate, intelligent, and hot but he also fucks Bahorel like Bahorel has always wanted to be fucked. He’s going to have a hickey the size of Jupiter on his neck tomorrow and Feuilly’s probably going to have bruises on his ass from where Bahorel was gripping. But it doesn’t even compare to Bahorel’s fantasies because Feuilly may give it to him hard but he also whispers in Bahorel’s ear, “God, you’re gorgeous. Fuck. Just like that. You’re perfect.” Bahorel’s pretty sure Feuilly calls him baby as some point and he’s pretty sure he likes it.

Still, Bahorel wonders, afterwards, if he’s allowed to cuddle. Feuilly doesn’t give him much of a choice, collapsing on Bahorel’s chest. Gratifyingly, he’s still flushed all sorts of red and panting just slightly.

“You’re pretty heavy for a skinny dude,” Bahorel says, pulling Feuilly closer.

“Just because you’re a giant,” Feuilly says, his eyes are heavy.

“Don’t leave,” Bahorel blurts out, without meaning to. “We can fuck all the time and I’ll make dinner for the next month.”

Feuilly rises up on his arm, with what looks like a lot of effort. “You know this thing, you and me, is the reason I’m moving out,” he says, his thumb coming up to stroke Bahorel’s lip. “We might need some space, sometimes.”

Like Bahorel wasn’t won over the second that Feuilly said, “You and me”.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bahorel says, a bit grumpily. “I guess if you want to be sensible about it or whatever.”

“Someone has to be,” Feuilly says, settling down on Bahorel’s shoulder again. “And we know it’s not going ever to be you.”

“Fuck you,” Bahorel says, comfortably.

“Fuck you, too,” Feuilly says, around a yawn.

 

 

Bahorel has almost drifted off to sleep when he hears Feuilly say, “The lease at my new place is up in six months, anyways.”

 

 

 

  

 

**Author's Note:**

> There needs to be more Feuilly/Bahorel in the fandom.


End file.
